Stargazing
by Sionnain
Summary: Emma realizes why it is Jean hates her so much, and it has nothing to do with Scott Summers. Jean GreyXEmma Frost.


**Stargazing**

_But the lonely are the prettiest of all, they burn from the inside._ Thea Gilmore

Emma finds Jean outside. Standing by the pool, head tilted back and staring up at the stars. The moon is nearly full, a small sliver shy of wholly round. It throws a cold silver wash on the grass, shines on the dark waters of the swimming pool. "You want something, Frost?"

Jean has a way of speaking to her, _this_ inflection to her voice. Every word some gift for which Emma should bow down in thanks. Beneath everything the slight accusations of _you don't belong_ and _you aren't good enough_. Even now, when Emma has done nothing save _walk outside_, Jean makes her feel like a penitent needing absolution.

_Darling, you cannot give me that,_ Emma thinks, shielding the thought.

Jean looks over. Emma can't see her eyes, it is too dark. They look like empty shadows on Jean's face. "Do. You. Want. Something." It's the tone of voice Jean uses with some of the kids when they misbehave. As if Emma is a nuisance and nothing more.

"I didn't come out here looking for you, Jean," Emma responds coolly. Jean looks striking against the black sky and white moonlight. Red hair luminous, blazing. Emma's hair is pale as the light, her eyes shine moon-gray. She blends in. Jean shines like some mythical firebrand, like her namesake. Of course she does, Emma thinks, mouth twisting.

"Then what did you come out here for?" Anger colors Jean's voice. She doesn't like Emma. She doesn't like how Emma looks at Scott. But it's more than that, it has to be. Other women have looked at Scott, before. Jean's not stupid, and she has to know that he's looked back, too. No, it's something else, Emma thinks, something deeper, that makes Jean's dislike of her burn like cinders, ever growing, never banked.

Emma looks up at the sky. In Genosha, the stars were different. _Are different_, she corrects herself angrily. Emma has the sudden thought that the night sky here is all wrong. She shivers from a chill that's bone-deep, and wonders why something so simple should affect her so strongly. The stars look the same in Genosha as they always have, she reminds herself sternly.

Unbidden, the thought arises like a ghost. _It's just there's no one left to see them._

"My father used to tell me stars were made out of diamonds," Emma says quietly. "I didn't believe it when I found out they were made out of fire. They looked too cold to burn."

"They don't look cold. Not up close."

Emma looks over at Jean, surprised. Jean's voice sounds faraway. Emma is not trying to read Jean's mind but she is still picking up something. Guilt. Tension. Loneliness? It's clinging to her like a scent, almost. Jean's unhappy. Maybe she's not here to look at stars to relax. Maybe it's a penance for her. Stargazing. _Perhaps Jean is the penitent one . . . _

"I wonder. If the--if the light's gone. From the--from the star. That I--that the Phoenix--" she doesn't finish, but Emma knows what she means. "It could still be there, you know. It takes light a long time to fade. A long way to travel in the dark."

Emma doesn't know what to say to that. She understands that she has done nothing to earn Jean's confidence. It's just that Emma knows, first hand, the horror of a thousand minds going quiet all at once. Jean doesn't like it, that Emma knows. Doesn't like it that Emma was a victim and not the cause. Jean might not hate Emma, if Emma hadn't lived.

_I won't be sorry I survived. I won't. I won't._ Out loud, she says, "It may be, you know, that you can only see that star on the other side of the world." Emma shrugs, stepping closer to Jean. "When it fades, you'll never know."

"Right," Jean says. She rakes a hand through her hair, red strands twining in pale fingers. "I'll never know." She looks at Emma. "Do you dream about it? Genosha, I mean."

"Why do you think I'm out here at this ungodly hour?" Emma asks, her voice sharp-edged and a little too high for her liking. _Why did I say that?_ She will not show weakness, not to Jean Grey of all people. One small _hint_ of instability, and Jean will see her out of the mansion for good. She should have said _no_, and let Jean think she was the unfeeling bitch Jean always assumes her to be. It's better than looking weak.

"Emma, remorse doesn't make you weak, it makes you _human_." Jean sounds disgusted. Emma's not sure with whom. Disgusted with being human?

"What, precisely, do I have to feel remorseful for, Jean? I am not the one who destroyed Genosha." Emma won't look at Jean. She looks instead at the stars, reflected in the water of the pool. Shifting, undulating. Like living things, instead of cold sentinels. She prefers the image in the water. She doesn't want to think about why.

"No, but you lived." Jean smiles, and the curve of her mouth is cruel and taunting. "Proving the universe has no sense of justice."

Emma blinks, startled. "That's rather horrid, isn't it? I may have done some regrettable things, but are you telling me I deserved to die?"

Jean doesn't answer, and that, of course, is all the answer Emma needs. "It would seem more appropriate," Emma says, her voice as cold as the moonlight, "That if anyone should perish in a genocide, maybe it should be someone who actually _caused_--"

Jean reaches out and wraps hot fingers around Emma's throat. Emma can see Jean's eyes, now. They are no longer dark but bright, burning green; as if lit from within by braziers. Fire trapped in emeralds. Emma narrows her eyes and tilts her chin up. "Don't," Jean growls, "you say a word to me about what I deserve. Don't you _dare_. If it weren't for Jason Wyngarde and _you_, Emma, I never would have done those things."

"I said," Emma responds, and her voice is breathless because Jean is squeezing and choking off her air, "That I have done regrettable things. Do you want an apology?"

Jean releases her hold on Emma's throat. "Only if I thought you meant it, you bitch, but I don't think you say anything that you mean anymore. I don't think you can feel regret about anything, except--what was it that woke you up, little Miss Frost?" Jean taunts, grabbing Emma's shoulders, and then Emma feels it. The slide of Jean's mind into hers, a burn that hurts because Jean wants it to hurt, and there's nothing subtle or delicate about the invasion at all. Jean is rifling through images of rubble and fire, seeing Emma there, cold in her diamond form and watching the world burn.

"You're sorry you lived?" Jean scoffs, and she should. That's not what wakes Emma up in a cold sweat, what drives her outside away from walls and into open air. But Jean is too angry to see the truth. "Bullshit, Frost. Anyone else may believe that, but not me. You're probably glad they're all dead--"

Emma slaps Jean, hard, across the face. It feels good, the stinging slap of her palm against Jean's cheek. "Shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

Jean is surprised; her eyes widened suddenly, and there's a look of shock before the anger falls, like a curtain, over her face. "Don't you dare hit me. Don't you touch me. You shouldn't even be allowed to _look at me_, you evil, _horrible bitch_--!"

"I am not sorry I lived, Jean." Emma snaps, and her form shifts to diamond, and Jean's hands--around her throat, again--are pressing against crystalline instead of skin. _I just feel guilty that I did, sometimes._ But she will never share that thought with Jean Grey. Never. The reason Emma cannot sleep is that she thinks about Genosha and how it was her second chance, and then everyone died and if she'd had a _fraction_ of Jean Grey's power, Emma could have stopped it, could have saved them all, and then no one would think her unworthy and second-rate.

Jean is breathing hard, trembling. But she is caressing the slickness of Emma's diamond skin. "This form suits you," she purrs, and she's moving closer. Stroking her fingers over Emma's mouth, down her jaw. Emma can feel the touch, a little. Just a little. Jean's mind is closed to her, now, but that doesn't mean Emma can't tell the other woman is still angry. There is a flush on her skin, her eyes are still bright. Her fingers are shaking, pressing against Emma's neck. "I can't even feel a pulse."

"I thought," Emma says, and smiling hurts but she does it anyway, "That was your line. Or was it Scott's?"

Jean shrieks and pushes her, and Emma stumbles, because while she can't fall prey to Jean's telepathy in her diamond form, Emma is still vulnerable to Jean's telekinesis. She shifts her form back to her normal self as she loses her balance and falls to the hard ground, in a tangle of white silk, landing hard on the dew-covered grass. "We're not seriously doing this," Emma huffs, looking up at Jean. "We're not men, darling. Men take their aggression out with fists. I would have thought we would have chosen some other way."

"If I were to do to you what I think you deserve, Frost, you wouldn't get back up," Jean snaps, but she reaches a hand down to help Emma up. Of course she does. Jean Grey is a better person than Emma will ever be. _I hate her._ She puts her hand in Jean's.

They are standing, close together. Holding hands. Emma is cold paleness, Jean is vivid fire, and they are staring at each other. Jean yanks Emma closer. "I am nothing like you," she breathes, and lowers her head. Her mouth is pressed against Emma's. "I am the Phoenix. I could kill you with a thought. And I don't, Emma. I let you stay here, and lust after my husband, and I do it because I am _better than you_."

Emma's eyes narrow, and the anger feels good, but it's a sick twist in her stomach because Jean is _right_. "Yes, yes," she hisses. "You're right, of course you're right. And if we both know that, _darling_, then why are you having this fight with me? Who would you rather be fighting with, Jean?"

Emma's breathing harder, faster. Jean's tongue licks out, traces Emma's mouth. "I could spin you into nothing, little girl," Jean breathes, hands sliding to Emma's back, rubbing slowly up and down. "Send you into oblivion with a _thought_."

Emma puts her hands in Jean's hair. They are moving together, almost waltzing. Jean is taller than Emma and is pushing her backwards, towards something. Emma's back hits against rough bark. A tree. "But you won't. That is the difference, between us. You won't." She refuses to allow Jean the upper hand, and pulls Jean's head down. Kisses her, pressing her mouth against Jean's, hard. Licks her tongue, delicate, like a cat, into Jean's mouth. Tastes anger and fire. Hate.

Jean makes a sound and shoves Emma harder back against the tree. Emma is thinking about fire, and the world going quiet. Jean's mouth burns as she kisses Emma. Her hands slide beneath the silk negligee Emma is wearing beneath her robe, close roughly over Emma's breasts. It feels good, to have someone touch her. Emma doesn't care that Jean knows that.

Jean's not shielding her thoughts either ---_God, I hate her. I miss Scott, why are we always fighting? I want to keep touching her, why do I want that?_--and there's something else, there, too. Beneath the anger and the resentment. There is a longing, for something. For darkness, gaping like a maw, waiting to devour. Jean misses it, a little. The power of the Phoenix, of giving in. Consuming. The lure of it is terrible. That is what has woken her up, has sent her gazing at the stars. Not guilt.

_Longing_.

The revelation is surprising, even if Emma expects it. That Jean missed the Phoenix. It makes Emma feel gleeful, to know she is right.

Jean's fingers are on the straps of Emma's little nightgown. Her robe is tossed on the ground, virginal white amidst the dark green grass. Emma shifts her form, slowly, to diamond. "Go on," she whispers, strangled, and the cold is rising up and threatening to drag her under, just as much as that dark fire licks at Jean, wanting to consume. Emma bites her lip. She will let go, and she will surrender. Emma is not afraid of the cold. That is what keeps her alive. Emma tilts her head, smiles a little. Taunting. "Go on." _Let go._

Jean's eyes start to glow. Her fingers feel like flame, or would, if Emma could feel them beneath the diamond. Emma's body is bare to Jean's touch and the cool breeze of the night air, but she can barely feel either. She's used to it, feeling numb. She craves it, and she hates it.

Jean pushes against Emma, and throws her head back and laughs. It's horrible, like nothing Emma's ever heard, but beautiful, too. "You would have me play at this? With you? Diamond will not keep you safe." There is warmth, now, that Emma can feel beneath the crystal skin. That should not be possible, but it is. Jean's hair is blowing softly and there is no wind. Her face looks terrible and beautiful and bright. Her fingers circle Emma's nipples, lick over the tips, and even through the diamond Emma feels her body respond. Feels wet between her legs, where Jean's hand caresses her thigh. The fire of Jean's touch _burns_, like liquid, straight through to the center of Emma's soul. To that emptiness left by Genosha and a dying nation.

Behind Jean, Emma thinks she sees wings.

_No!_ The scream is loud and makes Emma wince, even though no sound has broken the night.

Jean pulls back, pressing her hands against her face, and the unearthly light fades until she is just Jean, standing half bent over and trembling in the grass. "No. No. You got that from me once, Emma. Never again." She turns and leaves her there, running. Back towards the house. Back towards Scott, and safety, and warmth. Away from the fire, away from the Phoenix. Her thoughts flew like daggers through the air. _Emma's fault_ and _it's her fault I miss it, if she wasn't here, I wouldn't even think about it_, and _I'll never do that again, never let Emma win._ It has nothing to do with Scott, why Jean hates her.

Emma is naked, and freezing. She reaches down and picks up her nightgown, pulling it on with fingers that shake and don't seem to want to obey. Her robe is cold with dew. She cannot get warm. The memory of Jean's touch is still vivid, still real. Emma goes back to the house, walking slowly. Above her, the stars gleam coldly, ambivalent and unmoved.


End file.
